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SONGS OF A DAY 

AND • 

SONGS OF THE SOIL 



byV 

FKANK L. 'BTANTON 



(^ MAR 17 J8S^ 



^ U "i c ^ 



} 



NEW YORK 

JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 

1892 



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Copyright, 

1892, 

By frank L. STANTON. 



IIN^TRODUOTIOR 



THIS collection of Mr. Stanton's poems 
and songs is put forth neither as an 
experiment nor as a bid for the passing 
notoriety which in these days is sometimes 
mistaken for fame. It is issued in response 
to a demand v/hich has come from all parts 
of the country — not a popular demand, hut 
requests and suggestions from friends, stran- 
gers, and the press. 

That these poems have touched a popular 
chord is shown by the fact that they have 
been widely copied in the newspapers. Some 
of the pieces have been set to music, and in 
this shape have attracted wide attention. 
To my mind, the melody that is native to 
them is their finest setting. 

It should be said, not by way of apology, 
but by way of explanation, that the poems 
in this little volume are the flowers that 
have sprung up in the wilderness of daily 



iv INTRODUCTION. 

newspaper work, blooming unexpectedly, 
even to the author, between paragraphs or 
side by side with the results of the most 
arduous routine work. 

From the beginning of the book to the 
end, the reader will not find an artificial note. 
Sincerity and simplicity prevail throughout. 
Surely there is a touch of originality in the 
fact that the poet, with such remarkable 
facility for rhyme and metre and in the out- 
ward forms of his art, should cling so per- 
sistently to what is simple and true. 

Joel Chandler Harris. 

Atlanta, Ga., January 1, 1893. 



CONTENTS. 



Tlie Love Unknown 1 

Clarisse 2 

My Study 3 

Love's llecompeuse 5 

Lynched 5 

A Little Hand 6 

A Little Way ' 7 

The Toiler 7 

A Ghost 8 

Weary and Waiting 9 

A Love Note 10 

A Love Song. , 11 

The Reapers , .... 12 

At the Grave of Paul H. Hayne 13 

At Last 14 

Little Elaine 15 

The Master's Coming 16 

St. Michael's Bells, , , 17 

At Andersonville 19 

The Thought of You— A Song , , 21 

Kiss for Kiss , 22 

The Last Inn , , 23 

My Dead Friend , , 24 

A New Year's Song. 27 

" Nearer to Thee " 28 

In the Fields .... 29 

The Call of the Reapers 31 

Slain 33 

In a Swing 34 

For You 35 

Love's Visitor , 36 

Stanley's Message , 38 

The Violet ' ' . .' 41 

No Cross, No Crown 43 

St. Simon's Sound 44 

Love's Bouquet 46 

Through the Wheat 47 

The After-Time 48 

Love's Thanksgiving 50 



CONTENTS. Tl 

Hunt Him Down . . . . „ 51 

Going Home. 52 

The New Love and the Old. 54 

Her Beautiful Hands 56 

Little Hands 57 

Writing for Bread. 58 

Her Valentine , 60 

A Memory 61 

If You Could Come. 62 

A Song of Blessing 63 

One Sad Day 64 

Resolution , 65 

After Death. 66 

Thy Face 67 

Faithful 68 

One of the King's Own Girls 69 

Way-Worn 70 

The Vales of Rome 71 

Love's Retrospect 72 

A Christmas Comedy. 74 

A Christmas Hymn . 76 

Maid o' the Mist 78 

SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

The Love Feast at Waycross ..... 83 

To Robert J. Burdette 86 

Summer-Time in Georgia. 88 

The Picnic at Selina. .............................. . 90 

Wearin' for You 92 

When Jim Was Dead. ........... 94 

The Old Pine Box. 95 

Good-By 97 

Old Times in Georgia 99 

The Lazy Man 100 

Didn't Think o' Losin' Him. 102 

The Lighting Age 103 

" Shoutin'."., ......... 105 

Jones' Cotton Planter 107 



SONGS OF A DAY. 



THE LOVE UNKNOWN. 

Sweetheart, you have not known me,- 

If I be great or wise ; 
Yet somewhere you shall own me 

Beneath God's splendid skies; 
Though now life's broken chalice 

No earthly sweets can, win, 
Some day, at Love's own palace, 

Your arms shall take me in ! 

Some day a rose will blossom 

White in the thorny ways, 
And on the dark Night's bosom 

Will fall the morning's rays; 
Some day when I am lying 

Pale from the storm and strife, 
Your lips shall seek me, dying, 

And kiss me back to life ! 

Then will the bird-songs, ringing, 
Fall soft on fields of bloom ; 

Then will the streams flow singing 
Through groves of rich perfume ! 



SONGS OF A DAY. 

Then shall the world benighted. 
The rarest splendor win, 

And at Love's palace lighted 
Your arms shall take me in ! 



CLARISSE. 



Kiss you? Wherefore should I, sweet? 

Casual kissing I condemn ; 
Other lips your lips will meet 

When my kisses die on them. 
Should I grieve that this should be? 
Nay, if you will kiss, kiss me ! 

Love you? That were vainer still ! 

If you win my love to-day, 
When the morrow comes you will 

Lightly laugh that love away. 
Should I grieve that this should be? 
Nay, if you must love, love me. 

Wherefore play these fickle parts? 

Life and love will soon be done. 
Think you God made human hearts 

Just for you to tread upon? 
Will you break them, nor repine? 
If you will, Clarisse, break mine ! 



MY STUDY. 



MY STUDY. 



The day in the west has faded, 

And night with auroral bai'^ 
The brow of the north has braided 

And brightened the blue with stars; 
And here in the firelight ruddy, 

In this temple of mystic art 
Which I modestly call "My study," 

I'm writing to you, sweetheart. 

I wish you could see me bending 

Over my books sublime, 
And drearily, wearily wending 

My way through the realms of rliyme ! 
I have sixteen songs and a sonnet 

Just finished (my stock in trade), 
And a verse, "On a Lady's Bonnet," 

Which will come tco high, I'm afraid. 

The room where I write is cheerful 

And warm— when it isn't cold; 
But its objects of art are fearful 

And wonderful to behold ! 
There's a chimney with grate of iron, 

Where the flaming firelight throws 
Its gleam on a bust of Byron, 

And a Caesar with broken nose ! 



SONGS OF A DAY. 

Then a bird on a bust of Pallas, 

The Raven of Edgar Poe, 
Looks down from the mantel callous 

To the years as they come and go. 
On a desk are the works of Schiller, 

. And Goethe, in bindings plain ; 
The songs of Joaquin Miller 

And the poems of Paul H. Hayne. 

Then Homer, the famed old Grecian, 

With an aspect devoid of joy, 
In a binding old (Venetian) , 

Comes next with the Siege of Troy. 
(Alas ! had the great bard ever 

Dreamed of this destiny sad, 
He'd have burned what he wrote, or never 

Penned a line of the Iliad !) 

I sometimes think that the Muses 

Grow thin in this Attic air ; 
But we live as our fortune chooses, 

And Fortune has left me here. 
I am used to her pranks and capers. 

But well does she act her part; 
She gives me my books and papers 

And a kiss from your lips, sv/eetheart ! 



LYNCHED. 



LOVE'S RECOMPENSE. 

Beneath the shroud the dead man lay 

And dreamed not that his love drew near ; 

But on his heart there fell that day — 
And angels saw it fall — a tear. 

When lo! above the barren sod, 

By never any sunshine lit, 
A white, sweet rose looked up to God, 

And God looked down and smiled on it ! 



LYNCHED. 

The tramp of horse adown a sullen glen ; 
Dark forms of stern, unmerciful masked 
men. 

A clash of arms, a cloven prison door, 
And a man's cry for mercy! . . . Then high 
o'er 

The barren fields, dim outlined in the storm, 
The swaying of a lifeless human form. 

And close beside, in horror and affright, 
A widowed woman wailing to the night. 



SONGS OF A DAY. 



A LITTLE HAND. 



Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
Somewhere in this sun-bright land ; 

But I thank the Lord for His blessings, 
And the clasp of a little hand. 

A little hand that softly stole 

Into my own that day, 
When I needed the touch that I loved so much 

To strengthen me on the way. 

Softer it seemed than the softest down 
On the breast of the gentlest dove ; 

But its timid press and its faint caress 
Were strong in the strength of love ! 

It seemed to say in a strange, sweet way : 

"I love you and understand;" 
And calmed my fears as my hot, heart tears 

Fell over that little hand. 



Perhaps there are tenderer, sweeter things 
Somewhere in this sun -bright land ; 

But I thank the Lord for His blessings, 
And the clasp of a little hand. 



THE TOILER. 



A LITTLE WAY. 



A little way to walk with you, my own — 

Only a little way, 
Then one of us must weep and walk alone 

Until God's day. 

A little way ! It is so sweet to live 

Together, that I know 
Life would not have one withered rose to give 

If one of us should go. 

And if these lips should ever learn to smile, 
With your heart far from mine, 

'T would be for joy that in a little while 
They would be kissed by thine ! 



THE TOILER. 

Heavy the heart and weary the brain, 

But write, my pen, oh, write! 
For rest from labor will come again. 

With a kiss from her lips at night. 

Sonnet and story — trace them well, 

In beautiful lines and bright ; 
But the tenderest thought in my heart will 
dwell 

On the kiss from her lips at night. 



8 SONGS OP A DAY. 

And the world may frown on the head 
bowed down, 

And its splendors veil from sight ; 
I bear the cross, for I gain the crown 

With a kiss from her Kjds at night ! 



A GHOST. 



All night beside my dreamless bed 

She walks with soft and thrilling tread — 

Living through death and all things dead. 

She does not speak — a form of mist, 

Holding with life a solemn tryst, 

With hands unclasped and lips unkissed. 

But could I touch those lips and feel 
The white, sweet arms about me steal ; 
Though Death did then his face reveal 

And flash his sword between us — I, 
Mad in that moment's ecstasy. 
Would kiss her heavenly lips and die ! 



WEARY THE WAITING. 



WEARY THE WAITING. 

There's an end to all toiling some day — 
sweet day, 
(But it's weary the waiting, weary !) 
There's a harbor somewhere in a peaceful 

bay 
Where the sails will be furled and the ship 

will lay 
At anchor — somewhere in the far-away — 
(But it's v/eary the waiting, weary!) 

There's an end to the troubles of souls 
opprest, 
(But it's weary the waiting, weary !) 
Some time in the future when God thinks 

best. 
He'll lay us tenderly down to rest, 
And roses'll grow from the thorns in the 
breast. 
(But it's weary the waiting, weary!) 

There's an end to the world with its stormy 

frown, 
(But it's weary the waiting, weary!) 
There's a light somewhere that no dark can 

drown, 



10 SONGS OF A DAY. 

And where life's sad burdens are all laid 

down, 
A crown — thank God! — for each cross — a 

crown ! 
(But it's weary the v/aiting, weary!) 



A LOVE NOTE. 

Do not forget me, dearest ; all day long 

I think of you, and wish the time more fleet ; 
My heart is always singing some sweet song, 
And thinking of you makes my labor 
sweet. 
And if the day seems anywise less bright — 
More vext with cares than I had thought 
'twould be — 
I think with joy of the approaching night 
When the sv/eet stars shall guide my steps 
to thee. 
One thought still whispers — sweeter ever- 
more: 
"Thou shalt behold her when the day is 
o'er!" 

And so I shall ; for you will watch and wait 
When on the flowers the tears of twilight 
fall; 

Sweet are the roses 'round your garden gate, 
But you are still the sweetest rose of all ! 



A LOVE SONG. 11 

And you are my rose — even my very own, 
And to my life your beauty you impart ; 

Bloom sweetly still, but bloom for me alone, 
And twine your tendrils closer 'round my 
heart. 

Dear, I shall soon within your presence be, 

And you are waiting with a kiss for me ! 



A LOVE SONG. 

Sweetheart, there is no splendor 
In all God's splendid skies 

Bright as the love -light tender 
That dwells in your dear eyes ! 

Sweetheart, there are no blisses 
Like those thy lips distil ; 

Of all the world's sweet kisses 
Thy kiss is sweetest still ! 

Sweetheart, no white dove flying 
Had e'er as soft a breast 

As this sweet hand that's lying 
Clasped in my own — at rest! 

Sweetheart, there is no glory 
That clusters 'round my life 

Bright as this bright, sweet story : 
"My sweetheart and my wife!" 



12 SONGS OP A DAY. 



THE REAPERS. 

The wind is soft in the waving wheat, 

With a sigh for the maids who love us; 
The hives are heavy with honey, sweet 
As the lips of the maids ho love us. 

Oh, reapers, sing 

As your keen blades ring, 
As blithe as the birds above us ! 

The golden crown 

Of the wheat bends down 
At the feet of the maids who love us. 

Here's gold for them in the golden wheat 

Which the palms that we press shall cover ; 
But a lass that loves with a true heart's beat 
Asks only love of her lover. 

Then, reapers, sing 

As your keen blades ring, 
Till the stars peep out above us ; 

And the twilight thrills 

With the whippoorwills 
Calling home to the hearts that love us ! 



AT THE GRAVE OF PAUL H. HAYNE. 13 



AT THE GRA VE OF PA UL H.HA YNE. 

Where tlie winds their clamors cease, 
Wliere the dewy flowers of peace 
Sweeten through the grassy sod 
And the silence breathes of God ; 
Sweet he sleeps whose songs were sweet, 
And I pause with reverent feet 
As I lay ui3on his shrine 
This poor, v/ithered wreath of mine ! 

Withered, but each leaflet bears 
The soft imprint of my tears ! 
Tears from eyes his death made dim — 
Tears that fall for love of him ; 
For I loved his songs, and they 
Sing themselves to me to-day, 
Till I feel and see him near — 
Not in dust and daisies there! 

With the laurel on his brow, 
Sings the Master sweeter now ; 
And his loftier numbers rise 
Mid the palms of Paradise! 
Still, when twilight steals apace 
And the veil on Heaven's face 



14 SONGS OF A DAY. 

Twinkles through with stars, I seem 

Listening still, as in a dream. 

To the melody that floats 

From his last sweet earthly notes ! 

Notes that blend at morn and even 

With the songs he sings in Heaven ! 



AT LAST. 



Oh, the sights that he had seen 
In the far and travelled lands ! 

His heart was cold and the sword was keen 
In his merciless, reckless hands. 

And never a foe he spared — 
No pangs for the lives he slew ; 

And never a God in the heavens he feared, 
Though God looked on and knew \ 

But God was wiser still; 

Love conquers hate and pride ; 
His shafts are keen to heal or kill, 

And at Love's feet he died! 



LITTLE ELAINE. 15 



LITTLE ELAINE. 

Where have you gone, little Elaine, 

With the eyes like violets wet with rain — 

Silvery April rain that throws 

Melting diamonds over the rose? 

(Ah, never were eyes as bright as those !) 

You have left me alone; but where have you 

flown? 
God knows, my dear, God knows ! 

Where have you gone, little Elaine, 
With laughing lips of the crimson stain — 
Lips that smiled as the sunlight glows 
When morning breaks like a white, sweet 

rose 
Over the wearisome winter snows? 
Shall I miss their song my whole life long? 
God knows, my dear, God knows! 

You have left me lonely, little Elaine: 
I call to you, but I call in vain ; 
I sing to you when the twilight throws 
Its dying Hght on my life's last rose. 
While the tide of Memory ebbs and flows. 
Is it God's own will I should miss you still? 
God knows, my dear, God knows! 



16 SONGS OF A DAY. 



THE MASTER'S COMING. 

In a desolate night and lonely, afar in a 

desolate land, 
I waited the Master's coming — the touch of 

His healing hand. 
The gates of His house were guarded and 

sealed with a seal of stone. 
Yet still for His steps I waited and wept in 

the dark alone. 

And I said: "When the guards are dream- 
ing I will steal to His couch of rest ; 

He will think of my weary vigils and wel- 
come me to His breast." 

But lo ! when the seal was broken, the couch 
where my Master lay 

Held only His shining garments — they had 
taken my Lord away ! 

Then my soul in its grief and anguish lay 
down in the dark to die 

Under a hopeless heaven, under a sunless 
sky; 

But my dreams were all of the Master — dear 
as my soul was dear, 

And waking, I saw the glory of His beauti- 
ful presence there ! 



SAINT Michael's bells. 17 

And He said, as I fell and worshipped: 
"Arise, and the Master see; 

Behold the thorns that have crowned Him — 
the wounds that were made for thee!" 

I wait for the Master's coming now as in 

days gone by, 
Under a hopeful heaven, under a cloudless 

sky; 
And still when the guards are dreaming I 

steal to His couch of rest ; 
His smile through the darkness lightens, and 

welcomes me to His breast ! 



SAINT MICHAEL'S BELLS. 

I wonder if the bells ring now, as in the days 
of old. 

From the solemn star-crowned tower with 
the glittering cross of gold ; 

The tower that overlooks the sea whose shin- 
ing bosom swells 

To the ringing and the singing of sweet 
Saint Michael's bells? 

I have heard them in the morning when the 
mists gloomed cold and gray 

O'er the distant walls of Sumter looking 
seaward from the bay, 
2 



18 SONGS OP A DAY. 

And at twilight I have hstened to the musi- 
cal farewells 

That came flying, sighing, dying from sweet 
Saint Michael's bells. 

Great joy it was to hear them, for they sang 

sweet songs to me 
Where the sheltered ships rocked gently in 

the haven — safe from sea, 
And the captains and the sailors heard no 

more the ocean's knells. 
But thanked God for home and loved ones 

and sweet Saint Michael's bells. 

They seemed to waft a welcome across the 

ocean's foam 
To all the lost and lonely: "Come home — 

come home — come home ! 
Come home, where skies are brighter — 

where love still yearning dwells !" 
So sang the bells in music — the sweet Saint 

Michael's bells! 



They are ringing now as ever. But I know 

that not for me 
Shall the bells of sweet Saint Michael's ring 

welcome o'er the sea; 



AT ANDERSONVILLE. 19 

I have knelt within their shadow, where my 
heart still dreams and dwells, 

But I'll hear no more the music of sweet 
Saint Michael's bells. 

Oh, ring, sweet bells, forever, an echo in my 

breast 
Soft as a mother's voice that lulls a loved one 

into rest ! 
Ring welcome to the hearts at home — to me 

your sad farewells 
When I sleep the last sleep, dreaming of 

sweet Saint Michael's bells! 



AT ANDERSONVILLE. 

When the weird, wondering wind is still. 

There, in tiie valleys at Andersonville, 

At that shivering hour — the grim half-way 

Of the ghostly march of the dark to day. 

There are sounds too mystical to repeat ; 

Eager voices, hurrying feet, 

Eibald laughter and jest — and then 

The prayers and pleadings of 'prisoned men. 

At dead of night, when the wind is still. 
There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 



20 SONGS OF A DAY. 

When the hills gloom black in the midnight 

shade 
There are signs of life in the old stockade; 
The phantom guards in the prison bounds 
Eesume their sorrowful, silent rounds ; 
While the glow-worm's lantern gleams and 

waves 
Adown the aisles of a thousand graves ; 
And then to the listening ear there comes 
The mystic roll of the muffled drums. 

The drama ends and the dreamer wakes; 
In the flowering fields and tangled brakes 
The birds are singing; the Uquid notes 
Else to heaven from their thrilling throats ; 
The sunlight falls with a softened beam 
On the voiceless graves where the dead men 

dream ; 
While hill and valley and prison sod 
Rest in the smile and the peace of God. 

But at dead of night, v/hen the wind is still, 
There is life in the shadows at Andersonville. 



THE THOUGHT OF YOU— A SONG. 21 



THE THOUGHT OF YOU— A SONG. 

I care not whether the skies are blue, 
Or the clouds gloom black above me ; 

A sweet thought comes with the thought 
of you — 
You love me, dear, you love me ! 

When the world is cold and its friend- 
ships few, 

And toil is a vain endeavor, 
A sweet voice sings to my soul of you, 

And the world is sweet forever. 

And love, my love, with the bright eyes 
true 

And the red lips kind with kisses. 
There is no love like my love for you — 

No joy in the world like this is! 

And whether the skies are dark or blue. 
With stars or storms above me. 

My life will shine with the thought of 
you— 
You love me, dear, you love me ! 



22 SONGS OF A DAY. 



KISS FOR KISS. 

Just one kiss? Nay, sweet, I know 
Love would never have it so. 
Should those lips of crimson stain 
Kiss me, I should kiss again ! 
What could fairer be than this — 
Love for love and kiss for kiss? 

I would owe you nothing, sweet. 
Not a heart's faint, fluttering beat! 
When I feel your fond heart thrill, 
Dearest, shall my own be still? 
Nay, it must be always this — 
Love for love and kiss for kiss ! 

Kiss for kiss ; the lilies white 
Kiss the wind and kiss the light ; 
And the wind the kiss returns, 
And the light its answer burns 
On the lily's lips — oh, bliss ! 
Love's a lily — kiss for kiss! 



THE LAST INN. 23 

THE LAST INN. 

This is the inn that I 

Have dreamed of all my days ; 
I enter — close the door — good-by ! 

And the world may go its ways. 
The soft, cool shadows round me creep; 
I lay me down to rest — to sleep. 

There is no reckoning here : 

Not any noise or strife ; 
Nor shall one murmur at the fare 

When Death is host to Life. 
Clean bed and board for ye that come, 
But sightless eyes and lips made dumb. 

Cold ice at head and feet, 

But flowers of colors grand 
To make the air above you sweet 

And paint the roof of sand. 
What more? And when the keen winds 

blow, 
Sweet dreams in daisies 'neath the snow. 

Good-nighfc, friends, and farewell ! 

Our lives must parted be. 
Grieve not that I with Death must dwell, 

For Death is kind to me. 
Tired, I lay me down to rest, 
A child lulled on a mother's breast. 



24 SONGS OF A DAY. 



3IY DEAD FRIEND. 

Adown the vale of Life together 

We walked in spring and winter weather, 

When days were dim, when days were 
bright ; 
My friend of whom God's will bereft me, 
Whose kind, congenial spirit left me 

And went forth in the Unknown Night. 

I saw his step grow more invalid, 
I saw his cheek grow jpallid — pallid, 

And wither like a dying rose ; 
Until, at length, being all too weary 
For Life's rude scenes and places dreary, 

He bade farewell to friends and foes. 

This is his grave. The Spring with flowers 
Bestrews it in the morning hours, 

Her rarest roses o'er him bowed ; 
And Summer pauses to deplore him. 
And weeping Winter arches o'er him 

Her solemn drapery of cloud. 

He was not faultless. God, who gave him 
Life, and Christ, who died to save him. 
Sent Sorrow, wherewith he was tried ; 



MY DEAD FRIEND. 25 

And if, as I who loved him name him, 
There should he heard a voice to hlame him, 
May we not answer: " Christ hath died? " 

Ah, verily ! ... I fancy often 
I see his kindly features soften — 

I mark his melting eyes grow dim. 
While Hunger, with its pained appealing, 
Its want and woe and grief revealing, 

Stretched its imploring palms to him. 

He cannot answer now. He never, 
In all the dim, vast, deep Forever, 

Shall speak with human words again. 
He cannot hear the song birds calling ; 
He cannot feel the spring dews falling, 

Nor sigh when winter winds complain. 

Deep is his sleep. He would not waken 
Though earth were to her centre shaken 

By the loud thunders of a God. 
Though the strong sea, by tempest driven, 
With wailing waves rock earth and heaven, 

He would not answer from the sod. 

So be it, friend ! A little while hence. 
And in the dear, deep, dreamless Silence 
We too shall share thy couch of rest. 



26 SONGS OF A DAY. 

When we have trod Life's pathways dreary, 
Kind Death will take the hands grown 
weary, 
And gently fold them o'er the breast. 

Sleep on, dear friend ! No marble column 
Gleams in the lights and shadows solemn 

Over the grasses on thy grave ; 
But flowers bloom there — the roses love 

thee ; 
And the tall oaks that tower above thee 

Their broad, green banners o'er thee wave. 

Sleep, while the weary years are flying; 
While men are born, while men are dying ! 

Sleep on thy curtained couch of sod ! 
Thine be the rest which Christ hath given, 
Thine be the Christian's hope of Heaven; 

Thine be the perfect peace of Grod ! 



A NEW year's song. 27 



A NEW YEAR'S SONG. 

New Year ! that with merry sound 

Is coming up the slope, 
Pass Hghtly o'er that httle mound 

Where hes a Ufe's lost hope! 
For you have curls of gold, New Year, 
And curls of gold are resting there ! 

Sing, if you will, your happy stave 

O'er frosty vale and hill; 
But when you pass that little grave— 

Oh, let the song be still ! 
For lips that knew no song of cheer 
Are sleeping there — are sleeping there! 

Hide not with flakes of chilly snow 
The withered flowers that rest 

(Poor gifts of hearts that loved her so !) 
Upon that little breast. 

The only flower two lives held dear 

Lies withered at your feet, New Year ! 

But oh, the years must come and go, 

Nor heed our wish or will ; 
And yet I hope, and yet I know 

He loves His children still 
Whose hand makes crosses hard to bear- 
Even like this little grave, New Year ! 



38 SONGS OP A DAY. 



''NEARER TO THEE." 

They were singing, sweetly singing, 

And the song melodiously 
On the evening air was ringing : 

"Nearer, my God, to Thee!" 
In my eyes the tear-drops glistened 

As it stirred the twilight dim, 
And I wondered as I listened 

If it brought them nearer Him? 

Were they like the wanderer weary, 

Song and life in sweet accord ; 
Resting in the darkness dreary 

In that nearness to the Lord? 
Had His spirit ever sought them 

To be slighted or denied? 
Had that dear song ever brought them 

Closer to the Saviour's side? 

I have heard its music often. 

Felt its meaning deep and sv/eet; 
And my weary heart would soften 

Singing at my Master's feet; 
"Nearer Thee," — oh, precious feeling !- 

Nearer Thee in gain and loss ; 
Nearer Thee when I am kneeUng 

In the shadow of Thy Cross ! 



IN THE FIELDS. 29 

Nearer Thee wlien Love, descending, 

Falls in blessing on my head ; 
Nearer Thee when I am bending 

O'er the graves that hide my dead! 
Nearer Thee in joy, in sorrow, 

'Tis the same where'er I roam; 
Nearer Thee to-day, to-morrow, 

my King, my Christ, my Home ! 



IN THE FIELDS. 

maiden under the skies so blue. 
Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
I'd rather be walking the fields with you 

Than going my way to the town ! 
Is it far to your dwelling? But here's a 

rose; 
Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who 
knows? 

It is like your face ; it is like the smile 

Of your lips so red and sweet. 
Do the roses bloom for a little while 

And their hearts then cease to beat? 
How fair were the roses my youth-time 

knew ! 
Were I a rose I would bloom for you. 



30 SONGS OF A DAY. 

Do you roam through the summers sweet 
and long 
Over these fields so fair, 
And blend your voice with the harvest song 

That thrills through the scented air? 
When you hind the wheat with a golden 

skein 
Are the tares not mixed with the ripened 
grain? 

Sowing and reaping my life has known, 
And now with the gathered sheaves 

There are fruitless weeds that have heedless 
grown, 
And thorns 'neath the rose's leaves. 

Sowing and reaping, the harvest seems 

Less than my labor and less than my dreams. 



maiden under the skies so blue, 
Of the eyes and tresses brown, 
I'd rather be walking the fields with you 

Than going my way to the town ! 
Is it far to your dwelling? But here's a 

rose; 
Perhaps you slipped from its heart — who 
knows? 



THE CALL OF THE REAPERS. 31 



THE CALL OF THE REAPERS. 

I know that it is reaping-time in all the 

fields of Lee ; 
I can hear the reapers singing o'er the 

meadows, calling me: 
" And wherefore come you not to-day to reap 

the golden grain?" 
But I'll never see the fields of Lee, nor reap 

with them again, 

"And wherefore come you not to day ?" they 

cry across the wheat ; 
"And wherefore come you not?" the winds 

are chiming low and sweet ; 
And far and near sweet sounds I hear from 

over mount and main ; 
But I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor 

reap in them again. 

"Oh, wherefore come you not? The hand 
of autumn decks the sod ; 

The world is like a picture where the har- 
vests smile to God ; 

There's yet a late white rose for you in val- 
ley and in plain." 

But I shall not see the fields of Lee, where 
blooms that rose, again. 



33 SONGS OF A DAY. 

"Ah, wherefore come you not? The doves 

have left their v^oodland nests, 
With the gold of autumn gleaming on their 

downy, tender breasts ; 
And they're calling to you soft: 'Come 

home!' " But all their calls are vain; 
For I shall not hear the birds sing in the 

fields of Lee again. * 

Oh, comrades, cease your crying, as ye reap 

in fields of Lee ; 
Ye have there so many reapers there is 

never need of me ! 
Oh, doves, leave not your nests, nor call in 

tender tones and vain, 
To him who hears, with falling tears, but 

cannot come again. 

Reap on, ye men and maids of Lee; for 

those that sow must reap ; 
And I am reaping far away, while ye your 

vigils keep ; 
But there is no song upon my lips, nor golden 

is the grain. 
And I shall not see the fields of Lee, nor 

reap with you again ! 



SLAIN. 



SLAIN. 



33 



Swiftly the shot from my rifle sped 
To his heart, and he fell in the darkness- 
dead ! 

With never a struggle, never a sigh, 
I saw my enemy bleed and die. 

And now, I said, is my peace secure ; 

I shall fear his hand and his hate no more. 

The black night came with a stealthy pace 
And shed the shadows over his face, 

Hidden forever from mortal view : 
And only God and the darkness knew ! 

But what would I barter of good and fair 
To take the place of the dead man there. 

As I face the future— the life to be, 
With God and the darkness haunting me! 



34 SONGS OF A DAY. 



IN A SWING. 

Here's a picture of the spring 

(Happy spring !) — 
It is beauty in a swing 

(Such a swing !) 
Made of vines from garden bowers 
Where the blossoms fall in showers, 
With embroidery of flowers — 

Pretty thing ! 

She is Beauty. Up she goes 

In the air, 
And there tumbles down a rose 

From her hair. 
I can catch — I will not miss it — 
Tumble, tumble — ah, this is it. 
And with lips of love I kiss it 

For my dear. 

" Swing me ! swing me !" It is clear 

I am caught 
In a fairy, silken snare, 

All for naught; 
For her sweet commands are ringing 
And she will not cease the swinging, 
Though the birds of love are singing- 
Happy lot ! 



FOR YOU. 35 

"Swing me, swing me!" How her tones 

Ring and ring, 
Till the heart within me groans — 

Tired thing ! 
But her heart is like a feather ; 
Would to heaven in just such weather 
We could go through life together 

In a swing! 



FOB YOU. 

For you, dear heart, the light — 
God's smile, where'er you be, 

And if He will — the night. 
Only the night for me ! 

For you Love's own dear land 
Of roses, fair and free ; 

And if you will — no hand 
To give a rose to me. 

For you Love's dearest bliss 

In all the years to be ; 
And if you will — no kiss 

Of any love for me. 

Thankful to know you blest. 
When God your brow adorns 

With the sweet roses of His rest, 
I thank Him for the thorns ! 



36 SONGS OF A DAY. 



LOVE'S VISITOR. 

I see her in the near hght, in the far light, 
In the morning, when the sunbeams kiss 
the dew ; 
In the evening, when the shimmer of the 
starhght 
The tangle of the vines comes peeping 
through ; 

And her eyes, as in the sweet and far-away 
time, 
Are beautiful and tender ; and her cheek 
Is fragrant with the freshness of the May 
time — 
But the rosy lips are silent when I speak ! 

Perhaps the loving name by which I knevf 
her 
Is not the name by which they know her 
there 
Beyond — where stars are brighter, skies are 
bluer. 
Where never any darkness draweth near. 

Perhaps the v/oven love words that I bring 
her 
She treasures in sweet silence, little worth : 



love's visitor. 37 

She'd rather hear the songs the angels sing 
her, 
Than listen to the lowlier songs of earth. 

Yet wherefore from the seraph-guarded 
portal 
Beyond, where flows the dark, dividing 
sea, 
Whose waters lave the shining shore im- 
mortal. 
In light and night comes hack my love to 
me? 

Forever comes? Oh, doubting heart! no 
Heaven — 
Howe'er its walls may tower the stars 
above, 
With gates that look down on the unfor- 
given, 
Can stay the hands that love holds out to 
love! 



38 SONGS OF A DAY. 



STANLEY'S MESSAGE. 

How did the men with Stanley die? 
Under the blazing Afric sky, 

Struck by the python's fangs, or slain 
By poisoned arrows that fell like rain ; 

Or tracked and torn on the desert way 
By hungry lions that watch for prey. 

The desert's sands and the Congo's flood 
Were crimsoned deep with their sacred blood. 

Brave and faithful they were; but one — 
Though his life is ended, his mission done, 

Lives in the love of our hearts again — 
Best and bravest of Stanley's men ! 

For lo ! when the black king — savage, grim, 
Stayed the leader and heard from him 

How One called Christ on the cross had died. 
Scourged and bleeding and crucified. 

He cried : " brother ! across the sea 
Send this Christ of the cross to me !" 



STANLEY'S MESSAGE, 39 

Then Stanley summoned his men and said : 
" The way ye have travelled is reeking red 

With the blood of your hearts. But who 

will bear 
This message? Ho! for a volunteer!" 

Then out from the ranks came one and said : 
"Be mine the duty," and bowed his head. 

Then Stanley traced with a trembling hand 
These words: "Send Christ to this darkened 
land!" 

n. 

Over the desert scorched and bare ; 
Swift through the forest wild and drear; 

Leaping light by the lion's lair; 
Coiled sleek serpents that hissed in air ; 

By the unseen foe that hurled the dart 
Or winged the arrow after his heart, 

Sped a brave and bleeding man 

To Gordon's camp in the far Soudan. 

And the goal is gained, and they crowd 

around 
A bleeding form on the holy ground, 



40 SONGS OP A DAY. 

(Made holy then !) and they strive to wrest 
The poisoned shaft from his crimson breast. 

No word he said as his glazing eyes 
Looked their last on the world and skies ; 

But the brave hand pointed the bloody way 
To the heart where the letter of Stanley lay, 

Rent by the fierce and fatal dart 
And stained by the blood of his faithful 
heart ! 

Only these words, in Stanley's hand: 
"Send the Christ to this darkened land!" 



Was this the message of high emprise? 
Ay! And down from the Christ's own skies 

Swiftly the sorrowing angels came, 

With wings of white and swords of flame — 

Came, in the arms of love to take 

The life that died for the dear Christ's sake; 

The life whose record was written then : 
"Best and bravest of Stanley's men!" 



THE VIOLET. 41 



THE VIOLET. 

In life's last, lone December 

There blooms one violet. 
But why should I remember 

When she can so forget? 
She \\all not mourn or miss it 

When cruel frosts shall kill; 
But lean, fond lips, and kiss it, 

For we remember still ! 

In unknown paths and places 

Her fairy steps may be, 
But still her pictured face is 

The dearest dream to me ; 
And though the skies above me 

With stormy scenes are set, 
The dark eyes seem to love me — 

Ah, how could they forget? 

Oh, that the winds might waft her 

This dying violet's breath; 
That I might follow after 

And die the violet's death ! 
For then her heart, believing, 

Would leave, poor, wounded dove, 
Upon my lips, half grieving. 

The first, last kiss of love ! 



42 SONGS OF A DAY. 



NO CROSS, NO CROWN. 

I sometimes think, when life seems drear 
And gloom and darkness gather here ; 
When Hope's bright star forsakes my skies 
And sorrov>r o'er my pathway lies, 
It would be sweet, it would be best 
To fold my tired hands and rest; 
But then God sends an angel down 
Who sweetly says: "No Cross, no Crown." 

I heard the reckless river moan 
With sad and melancholy tone ; 
I saw its waters flashing free 
And dashing to the distant sea. 
I would have plunged beneath its tide 
And on its friendly bosom died. 
But then God sent the angel down 
Who whispered sweet: "No Cross, no 
Crown." 

Then turned I from the river's shore 

To bear my bitter task once more ; 

With aching heart and burning head 

To battle for my crust of bread. 

But Hunger came, who knew me well, 

And fainting by the way I fell ; 

But still the angel fluttered down. 

And weeping said: "No Cross, no Crown." 



NO CROSS, NO CROWN. 43 

No Cross, no Crown ! While standing there 

The cross too heavy seemed to bear, 

And for the crown — I could not see 

That it was ever meant for me ! 

The words I could not understand 

E'en while I pressed the angel's hand; 

But still he looked with pity down, 

And still he said: "No Cross, no Crown." 

I said: "The world is dark and lone; 

There is no hand to hold my own : 

I cannot bear the noonday heat. 

The sharp thorns pierce my bleeding feet 1" 

"Behold," he cried, "where, sacrificed. 

Shine the red, bleeding wounds of Christ !" 

And fell his tears of mercy down 

While still he said: "No Cross, no Crown." 

Back to the world I turned again 
To court life's joys, endure its pain. 
But all the sweetness that it gave 
I followed weeping to the grave; 
And from the cold and quiet sod 
1 raised my streaming eyes to God, 
And saw the angel coming down 
And in his hands a golden crown ! 

Then did I laugh at earthly loss. 
And, kneeling, lifted up the cross, 
Though all that once made life so sweet 
Lay 'neath the lilies at my feet. 



44 SONGS OF A DAY. 

A radiance from the realms of light 
Flashed for a moment on my sight ; 
A still, small voice came fluttering down : 
" It is enough. Keceive the crown !" 



SAINT SIMON'S SOUND. 

How mad the white stars danced that night— 

A wild and merry round, 
As fast we fled in foam and light 

Across Saint Simon's Sound. 

The sail, like some glad gull's white wing, 

Still made the vessel bound 
And speed, as if a living thing, 

Across Saint Simon's Sound. 

I did not heed the lamps that flashed 

From warning towers around. 
As through the dark and light we dashed 

Across Saint Simon's Sound. 

I did not fear the roaring sea 

Where love is whelmed and drowned — 
Your gold hair blowing over me 

On sweet Saint Simon's Sound. 



SAINT SIMON'S SOUND, 45 

Your soft white arms about my neck — 

A splendid necklace wound, 
White as the foam that washed the deck 

On glad Saint Simon's Sound. 

Mine was no heart to faint or fear 
When roared the storm profound ; 

I only knew that Love was near 
On sweet Saint Simon's Sound. 

I only felt his living breath, 

And for that rapture found, 
I dared the danger and the death 

Across Saint Simon's Sound. 

When lightning quivered from the skies, 

In stormy darkness drowned, 
Fair flashed the starlight from your eyes 

On dark Saint Simon's Sound. 

That starlight which with beams divine 

Made bright the world around. 
Till God's own glory seemed to shine 

Above Saint Simon's Sound. 

Oh, dark and light and storm and night, 
And waves where love is drowned, 

Give back to me that dream so bright 
On sweet Saint Simon's Sound! 



46 SONGS OF A DAY. 

And take these rainbows arching peace 
In skies by sunlight crowned, 

For love, in storms that never cease 
On dark Saint Simon's Sound! 



LOVE'S BOUQUET. 

Eed roses, wherefrom the dew drips, 

Staining the turf at my feet. 
You were never as red as her Hps — 

Or as sweet ! 

Blue violets, tender and true — 

A mirror for sun-sprinkled skies, 
Do you think you were ever as blue 

As her eyes? 

Rare lilies, in garments of white. 

Which winds v/ith warm kisses beguile. 
Have you yet known a sunbeam as bright 

As her smile? 

Kiss, lily, rose, violet — kiss! 

Ere time doth your beauty destroy; 
For her white hand hath touched you, and 
this 

Is your joy ! 



THROUGH THE WHEAT. 47 



THROUGH THE WHEAT. 

When she came tripping through the wheat 
It seemed to bend to kiss her feet, 
And roses all the sod made sweet 
And birds sang cheery ; 

The honey-bees were humming low — 
Gold specks on roses white as snow, 
Sweet roses — not so sweet, I know, 
As she was — Mary ! 

Her footstep seemed to wake a sound 
Of tinkling music from the ground 
That thrilled the winds that whistled round 
With sweet caresses, 

And on her forehead, white and sleek, 
The rarest blossoms fell to wi'eak 
Their love, and played at hide-and-seek 
In her gold tresses. 

Down fell the scythe upon the grass. 
And "Mary, Mary, will you pass?" 
"You're in my way," she said. "Alas! 
I must be going!" 



48 SONGS OF A DAY. 

"Not till yon pay the forfeit sweet ^ 
Of coming this way throngh the wheat ; 
Ah! Mary — lips were made to meet — 
A kiss yon 're owing!" 

Up went the dainty finger-tips, 
To shield the rich and rosy lips, 
And all their red was in eclipse — 
My Inck seemed missing. 

A moment only! Then, as she 
Fled like a shaft of light from me, 
She cried: "I paid no forfeit — see? 
You did the kissing!" 



THE AFTER-TIME. 

There cometh a time for laughter, 

And joy for the days and years; 
But ever there cometh after 

A time and a place for tears. 
We weary of revel and riot, 

And sick of the worldly strife; 
God sendeth the peace, the quiet, 

That quicken the founts of life. 

And the spirit is disenchanted 

With joys that are bitter-sweet; . 

And the soul which for rest hath panted 
Falls down at the Master's feet; 



THE AFTER-TIME. 4d 

The world and its ways seem lonely 
And love at the best seems loss— 

What help is there then but only 
To cling to the crimson cross? 

To cling to the cross that blossoms 

With blood for the erring shed, 
On the tenderest of tender bosoms 

To pillow the weary head, 
To feel the love that is glowing 

From the heart that is quick to beat, 
With even the harsh nails going 

In the beautiful scarred white feet ! 

O bird by the storm-winds driven 

Where never a sweet bird sings, 
From the wild and angry heaven 

Fly homeward with weary wings! 
And ye that are worn and weary — 

Who faint by the way and fall. 
Fly fast from the darkness dreary 

To the Rock that was cleft for all! 



60 SONGS OF A DAY. 

LOVE'S THANKSGIVING. 

Thanksgiving for you, dear — a sweet thanks- 
giving 
For what you were in all the past to me ; 
For what you are — a joy that sweetens 
living — 
For what you are to be. 

Thanksgiving for those eyes — the kind, the 
splendid — 
Dear eyes, whose light the whole wide world 
would miss; 
Your voice, in v/hich all melodies are 
blended — 
Thanksgiving for your kiss ! 

Thanksgiving for your smile, like sunlight 
streaming 
Over my heart, which still for you must 
beat; 
Dear, if to love you be but idle dreaming, 
Never was dream so sweet ! 

Thanksgiving for you ! Though my heart 
shall miss you. 
Drifting like some wrecked vessel far at 

I lean toward you in the dark aud kiss you — 
Sweetheart, kiss me 1 



HUNT HIM DOWN. 51 



HUNT HIM DOWN. 

Ho ! good people of every town, 
Here is a brother: hunt him down! 
Eoar at his heels like a raging flood — 
Slake your thirst with his heart's red blood ; 
For he was tempted — he sinned, he fell 
From heights of heaven to depths of hell ! 
Fugitive — fleeing the saintly town, 
Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 

Ho ! good people of every town. 
Sage and sinner and knave and clown. 
Swell the ranks with their storm and strife 
In the maddening race for a human life ! 
Pause not ye for his gasp and groan — 
Aim the arrow and hurl the stone ! 
Past the village and through the town 
Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 

Care not ye for the grief he feels ; 

Let the bloodhounds howl at his burning 

heels ; 
Let the cold, sharp stones of the cruel street 
Pierce the wounds in his bleeding feet ! 
Hurl your hisses and block his way. 
Till he stands at last like a beast at bay ! 
Search the village and sack the town — 
Hunt him down ! Hunt him down ! 



5^ SONGS OF A DAY. 

Ho! good people of every town, 
Let not mercy your justice drown ; 
'Tis human game — 'tis a soul in woe, 
Whose white Redeemer died long ago ! 
Scourge him — slay him ! 'tis little loss : 
A sinner clings to the crimson cross. 
Asking not for your shining crown, 
Dead in the darkness — hunted down ! 



GOING HOME. 

Adieu, sweet friends ; I have waited long 
To hear the message that calls me home, 

And now it comes like a low, sweet song 
Of welcome over the river's foam. 

And my heart shall ache, and my feet shall 
roam 

No more — no more ! I am going home. 

I am going home. O'er the river's tide, 
Crystal-white in the noonday sun, 

I see the friends on the other side 

Who the beautiful pearly gates have won ; 

And far and sweet from the shining dome 

They call to me still — come home! come 
home! 



GOING HOME. 53 

Do not weep for me, friends ; but lay 
Peacefully over my silent breast 

The hands whose labor is done, and say : 
"He hath entered in at the gates of rest." 

And God is merciful — God knows best, 

And sweet to the weary is rest, sweet rest ! 

Why should I linger? I long to go, 

And though "no price in my hand I 
bring," 

The Christ who died for us loves us so ! 
And simply still to His cross I cling. 

Never more from that cross to roam, 

I am going home ! I am going home ! 

Home! where no storm and no tempest 
raves 
In the light of the calm, eternal day ; 
Where no willows droop over lonely graves 
And tears from our eyes shall be wiped 
away. 
And my heart shall ache and my feet shall 

roam 
No more — no more i I am going home. 



54 SONGS OP A DAY. 



THE NEW LOVE AND THE OLD. 

Gone is the old-time glory — the passion and 

pain of love, 
When the world heard the wondrous story 

and smiled to the skies above ; 
When the rivers rippled and glistened, and 

music thrilled from the birds, 
And the roses blushed as they listened, and 

the winds and the waves had words. 

Gone are the dreams, the fancies and fears 

that once were Love's; 
Stolen kisses and tender glances, seen only 

by mating doves 
In the paths where the fairies led us — the 

beautiful paths and sweet, 
Where Love his litany read us in the violets 

at our feet. 

Memories, these ! Do we miss them — the 
wonderful days of old? 

Would we cherish them, keep them, kiss 
them, as misers cherish their gold? 

Ah, dear, had those days the sweetness of 
the latter, lovelier days 

When love in its all-completeness is blossom- 
ing 'round our ways? 



THE NEW LOVE AND THE OLD. 55 

No dreams — for the world is real — torture 

and tempt me now ; 
You are my soul's ideal, my queen of the 

crownless brow! 
Then I was mad with the meaning a look or 

a tone expressed ; 
Then you were shyly leaning away from my 

waiting breast. 

But now, with your white arms twining — a 

necklace — around me, I 
Can see in your bright eyes' shining a love 

that can never die; 
The love that the years have hastened; that 

will live in the years to be ; 
Tender and true and chastened, and dearer 

than life to me ! 

And, sweet, if we loved each other in the 

beautiful blossomed past, 
Still cHnging to one another, we who loved 

first, love last! 
But the last love is the best love — and only 

the sweeter grows : 
You were then a bud on my breast, love, 

but now you're a full-blown rose! 



56 SONGS OF A DAY. 



HER BEAUTIFUL HANDS. 

God's roses are sweet and His lilies are fair 
As they bend 'neatli the dews from above ; 
They are splendid and fair — but they can- 
not compare 
With the beautiful hands of my love. 
No jewels adorn them — no glittering bands — 
They are just as God made them, these 
sweet, sweet hands! 

And not for earth's gems, or its bright dia- 
dems, 
Or the pearls from the depths of the sea. 

Or the queens of the lands with their beauti- 
ful hands 
Should these dear hands be taken from me. 

What exquisite blisses await their com- 
mands ! 

They were made for my kisses, these dear, 
sweet hands. 

Ay, made for my kisses ! And when, some 
day, 
My life shall be robbed of its trust. 
And the lips that are colder shall kiss them 
away 
And hide them in daisies and dust; 



LITTLE HANDS. 57 

I will kneel in the dark where the angel 

stands, 
And my kiss shall be last on these dear, sweet 

hands. 



LITTLE HANDS. 

Little hands whose work is o'er; 
Tired hands that toil no more; 
Tender little hands that rest 
Folded o'er the sinless breast — 
Bending o'er them mother stands, 
Kisses still these little hands. 

God, who ever does the best. 
Folded them and bade them rest. 
Would He then these hands condemn 
With a mother's kiss on them 
When they reach the shining lands? 
Mother loved these little hands ! 

Mother loved them in the past, 
Mother's kiss was on them last; 
Little hands, beneath the sod, 
Take a mother's kiss to God ! 
Waft it o'er the shining sands, 
Little snow-white angel hands. 



58 SONGS OF A DAY. 



WRITING FOB BREAD. 

I sit alone — alone to-night, 

A shadow in the ghastly light 

That feebly flickers, faintly falls 

On cold, damp floor and barren walls; 

And o'er a desk of structure rude 

I bend in melancholy mood : 

For whether grief distract my breast, 

Or rob my weary eyes of rest. 

It matters not : by Hunger led, 

I still must write, must write for bread ! 

I sit alone; but is it strange? 

Through toil and sorrow, chance and 

change, 
I have sat thus for many years. 
In pain, in poverty and tears; 
Until my rapid, restless pen 
Has glided, o'er and o'er again, 
Into my heart, crushed by despair, 
As if to steal the life-blood there ! 
But what is heart, and what is head 
To him who writes, and writes for bread ? 

The world to me is like a dream : 
Once — once I saw its beauties beam, 



WRITING FOR BREAD. 59 

In the sad, perished long ago, 
Before my Hfe was blighted so. 
I loved my brothers, all that earth 
Contained of tenderness and worth ; 
I held their love a shining gem, 
And sang my sweetest songs to them ; 
But banislied from their breasts I fled. 
And here, alone, I write for bread. 

Ah, God, what misery is mine! 

These stars, these cold, calm stars of Thine 

That gem the silent midnight skies 

Are not as sleepless as my eyes ! 

They — they have seen my life-blood drip. 

For we have held companionship ; 

And I have read them o'er in vain, 

Until they burned into my brain. 

I mark the scornful rays they shed 

On him who writes, and writes for bread. 

Cold, cruel lamp, thy spectral ray 
Shall flicker like my life away : 
For by this heart by sorrow crushed, 
And by this brow with madness flushed, 
This hollow cheek and sunken eye, 
These lips, too feeble for a sigh, 
I feel that life, even in its noon, 
Is ebbing and will vanish soon. 
Then, weary heart and aching head. 
We shall not need to write for bread ! 



60 SONGS OF A DAY. 

Then will they lay me down to rest, 
And gently fold across my breast 
The hands whose weary work is o'er, 
And close the eyes that weep no more. 
And they will take from my cold clasp 
The pen that felt my living grasp, 
And calm and sweet my rest shall be. 
Though not an eye will weep for me. 
The dnst will be a sv/eeter bed A 

To him who, dying, wrote for bread. / 



HER VALENTINE. 
What shall I send you for a valentine? 
Perhaps there is nothing that would please 
me better 
Than to enclose this loving heart of mine 

Within the snowy pages of my letter. 
That would be very innocent and artless ; 
But, then, I know that you would deem me 
heartless. 

But take it, love, such as it is — a true 

And trusting heart. You did not seek to 
win it ; 
Unconsciously the poor thing went to you. 
Dreaming, and dazzled in one golden 
minute ! 
Let it be thrall to you ; (sweet service this is !) 
Its only recompense your smiles and kisses ! 



A MEMORY. 61 



A MEMORY. 

I sit alone in my room to-night 

And think of her dear, sweet face — 

Here where I miss the tender hght 
Of her lovehness and grace. 

I read her letters over again — 
The letters she wrote last year ; 

The faded flowers in the folds remain 
As her white hands placed them there. 

Ah, little she thought when these flowers 
she pressed 

For the heart that adored her so, 
They'd soon be blooming above her breast, 

And she in the dust below ! 

But the beat of her holy heart was stilled 
Ere the voice in its depths could speak, 

And the Angel of Death, in his anger, chilled 
The rose of life on her cheek. 

Why do I read her letters o'er? 

Can they bring her back as of old? 
The hand that penned them can write no 
more, 

The lips that kissed them are cold ! 



62 SONGS OF A DAY. 

Dear heart, we shall meet when the years 
are past, 

Under the dawn and dew, 
And light will break on my life at last 

When I dream in the dust with you ! 



IF YOU COULD COME. 

If you could come to me as I recall 

Your face, and I could feel ujDon my brow 
The warm breath of those lips, so silent 
now — 
Could hear some word from them in music 

fall. 
Thrilling the silence in my life with all 
The old-time sweetness! If I could but 
hear, 
When the sun sinks behind the western wall 
And tvdlight shades the weeping atmos- 
phere, 
A rustle in the roses at the gate. 
And, looking, I should see you standing 
there — 
My lonely life would not be desolate, 
For this v/ould comfort all my soul's 

despair. 
I know thy life is lovelier — God knows best, 
But still the dove mourns o'er its empty nest. 



A SONG OF BLESSING. 63 



A SONG OF BLESSING. 

God's blessing, gentle eyes, 
Upon you for the glance you gave to-day ; 

Low 'neath your light my heart your 
debtor lies, 
Striving to find some thankful words to say. 

God's blessing, gentle lips, 
Uix)n you for a tender smile — like this ! 

His reddest rose with loveliest crimson tips 
Your parted petals, quivering with a kiss. 

God's blessing, gentle hand, 
Upon your downy whiteness, and the touch 

That thrills me so ! I cannot understand — 
Hands, lips, and eyes, I love you all so much ! 

God's blessing for you, dear; 
For all you are, and all that you may be ; 
Your glance, your kiss, your smile, your 
touch — the mere 
Thought of you ! Ah, how dear you are to 
me! 



64 SONGS OF A DAY. 



ONE SAD DAY. 

One sad day when the sun's gold crown 
Jewelled the desolate, dreamy west, 

I came with a burden, and laid it dov^n 
Under the lilies and leaves to rest ; 

And, weeping, I left it and went my way 
With the Twilight whispering: "God 
knows best !" 

One sweet day — it was long ago, 

And thorny the paths my feet have pressed 
Since with tears and kisses I laid it low — 

Soul of my soul and life of my breast ! 
But kneeling now in the dark to pray. 

There comes with a song from the sunless 
west 
The same sweet voice that I heard that day — 

The Twilight whispering: "God knows 
best I" 



RESOLUTION. 65 



RESOLUTION. 

^ Poor? Yea, I grant it! In the lowliest 
ways 
My feet shall tread until they gain the goal ; 
But not too poor— thank God !— to make my 
days 
Eich with the deeds that glorify the soul. 

Thorns? Yea! they pierce me ; but I will not 
bow 

Till every thorn hath for a sin sufficed ; 
I wear them for a crown upon my brow — 

Sweet with the memory of a dying Christ. 

Upward and onward still shall press my feet, 
No cross shall daunt me, though no crown 
I win ; 
Faithful, unswerving, till I hear the sweet 
"Well done" of Him whose servant I have 
been. 



66 SONGS OF A DAY. 



AFTER DEATH. 

All night long the dead man lay 
Under the leaves and rain-washed clay; 

All night long in her dwelling dim 
The wife of his bosom wept for him. 

" And my heart is buried with him, " she said, 
"For I loved him living — I love him dead!" 

And the dead man dreamed in his narrow 

place 
That he felt her tears fall over his face ; 

And no dreams of the dead could sweeter be — 
"Down to death she was true to me!" 

But when o'er his grave, in the shine and rain, 
Eoses withered and bloomed again ; 

When the leaves fell brown on the cold 

earth's crust, 
And his bones were white and his heart was 

dust ; 

The woman he loved to another said : 
"I love you more than I loved the dead!" 



THY FACE. 67 

And in that same hour the only rose 
That bloomed on a grave fell dead ! . . . 
Who knows 

If the dead can feel? But howe'er it be, 
Sweet, with the love that you have for me, 

Love me now, while I draw my breath ; 
Love me down to the gates of death ! 

This is all that I ask or crave — 
Love thrives ill on a voiceless grave ! 



THY FACE. 

Thy face is with me when I walk alone 

In thorny ways of sorrow and of night ; 

Thy smile my comfort and thine eyes my 
light, 
Lest I should dash my foot against a stone. 
And oft the tender thought of thee, my own. 

Sustains me when I waver and grow weak. 
Tempted, I call to mind thy farewell tone — 

The kiss I left upon thy conscious cheek 
At parting— and I feel thy jDresence near, 
A joy to comfort and a strength to bear ! 

dear, sweet face, be near me all the while ; 
O eyes of hght, dispel the darkness drear; 

O lips, beam on me with a loving smile, 
And I the wreath of victory shall wear ! 



68 SONGS OF A DAY. 



FAITHFUL. 

It is something, sweet, when the world goes 

ill 
To know you are faithful and love me still ; 
To see, when the sunshine has left the skies, 
The love-light shining in your dear eyes ; 
Beautiful eyes, more dear to me 
Than all the wealth of the world could be ! 

It is something, dearest, to feel you near 
When life with its sorrows seems hard to 

bear; 
To feel when I falter the clasp divine 
Of your tender and trusting hand in mine ; 
Beautiful hand, more dear to me 
Than the tenderest things of earth could be ! 

Sometimes, dearest, the world goes wrong. 
For God gives grief with His gift of song. 
And poverty, too ! But your love is more 
To me than riches and golden store ; 
Beautiful love, until death shall part 
It is mine, as you are — my own sweetheart ! 



ONE OF THE KING'S OWN GIRLS. 69 

ONE OF THE KING'S OWN GIRLS. 

So fair and fleet are her dancing feet 
In the music's waves and whirls, 

My heart keeps time with a rhythmic beat — 
She is one of the king's own girls! 

The king is great in his robes of state — 

In his purple robes and white, 
And I crouch low down at his palace gate — 

Where her white feet flash to-night. 

And I kiss a rose, and its warm breath goes 
Through the portals, wild and sweet : 

Asd it sighs and dies 'neath her splendid eyes, 
In the flash of her fairy feet. 

It sighs and dies like the heart that lies 
In the warmth of her winsome breath ; 

For I kissed her lips and I kissed her eyes 
With my soul, and to kiss means death ! 

But so fair and fleet were her dancing feet 
In the music's waves and whirls, 

My heart died gladly with one wild beat 
For one of the king's own girls! 



70 SONGS OF A DAY. 



WAT- WORN. 

I say to my soul that it would be best 

If the hands that labor were folded o'er 
The silent breast in the last sweet rest — 
When I think of the friends who have 
gone before, 
Who have crossed o'er the river's rolling 

tide 
And reached the home on the other side. 

It seems so far to the wished-for day, 
And weary and lonely and lost I roam ; 

I feel like a child who has lost his way 
And is always longing for home, sweet 
home; 

But I say to my yearning heart — "Be still: 

We'll go home when it is God's will." 

The night is long, but the day will break 
When the light of eternity, streaming 
down 

On the cross we bear for the Master's sake, 
Will guide our steps to the promised crown. 

A little while and the gate is passed — 

Home and heaven and rest at last ! 



THE VALES OF ROME. 71 



THE VALES OF ROME. 

No cold and crumbling arches — 

The frolic of the Fates ; 
No senatorial marches 

Through lion-guarded gates; 
No Ceesar's glittering legions, 

Whose eagles crown its dome ; 
But love, in Love's own regions — 

The violet- vales of Rome. 

Theie rise the dark-blue mountains. 

Where clouds are fair and fleet ; 
There leap the living fountains — 

There sing the rivers sweet ! 
There morning breaks in showers 

Of light and silver foam. 
And from their airy towers 

Smile stormless stars on Rome. 

And there rare birds are winging 

Their wild and wondrous flight ; 
The splendid day dies singing 

A love song to the night ; 
And Love's sweet voices calling 

Love's weary wanderers home, 
In golden music falling, 

Thrill all the vales of Rome. 



72 SONGS OF A DAY. 

That Love which woes and wonders 

Far from the wreck and strife, 
I hear it in the thunders 

And tempests of my life ; 
And ansv^er : " Love, I hear thee, 

O'er seas of storm and foam; 
Thy lover's steps draw near thee — 

Eing sweet, ye bells of Rome!" 



LOVE'S BETR08PECT. 

We sat there yester even beneath the listen- 
ing vines. 

Where still the mornin' glory above the 
doorway twines, 

And the nightingales were singin' just as 
they sang of yore, 

When first she said "I love you," but now 
she loves me more ! 

The same old place ; the rocker in which she 

sat while I, 
Half fearful that the stars would hear the 

secret in the sky. 
Leaned her way just a little, and said, "I 

love you!" Sure, 
I meant it then, and loved her true, but now 

I love her more ! 



love's retrospect. 73 

The old days seemed to come again while 

sitting side by side 
Where first she said she'd be my wife — we 

didn't call it "bride"— 
I told her then, "How sweet you are!" an' 

felt my pulses thrill 
With all that sweetness close to me — but 

now she's sweeter still ! 

We talked it over, sitting there, near love's 

own happy lands. 
And once more felt the first sweet joy that 

comes of holdin' hands; 
She seemed to be my sweetheart still — 'twas 

all just as before — 
But we clasped each other closer, and we 

loved each other more ! 



74 SONGS OF A DAY. 



A CHRISTMAS COMEDY. 

Two shrouded shapes on Christmas Eve, 

Grrim, ghostly, met 
Where winds in weird numbers grieve 

And raindrops wet 

The leaky roofs where dead men dream 

With stifled moans; 
The chill white starlight's dagger-gleam 

Laid bare their bones. 

"Away," cried one, "from death and dark- 

Where dead men be, 
To where the world is blazing. Hark ! 

Its revelry!" 

Then through the dreary night they sped, 

With wild desires, 
Where life with love and laughter fed 

The Christmas fires. 

When lo ! one standing near a hearth 

Where love did dv>^ell, 
Heard a child's wailing at its birth, 

And shuddering fell ; 



A CHRISTMAS COMEDY. 75 

His white bones strewn about the place, 

His sockets dull, 
Light's mockery ! And before Love's face 

His staring skull ! 

The other, warming at the blaze, 

By Love's own side, 
Dreaming of life and of the days. 

Love glorified, 

Caught in his frozen bones the heat 

Life only knew ; 
The red flames thawed the graveyard sleet 

And pierced him through. 

Then creaked his bones, and one by one 

They crumbled white; 
His skull stared as his friend's had done 

And blurred the light. 

And when I left — too sad to say. 

But so it comes — 
Full fifty children were at play, 

With skulls for drums! 



76 SONGS OF A DAY. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN.'' 

From the centuries far away, 
On the kneeling world to-day 
Shines one splendid star — the gem 
Of the stars of Bethlehem. 

(0 Christ, for whom its beams were shed, 

Lo ! we were to Thy manger led 

With those that loved Thee, knelt with 

them ! 
Remember us at Bethlehem !) 

It is shining as when sweet, 
While their flocks fed at their feet, 
Dreamed the shepherds, and its beams 
Made the glory in their dreams. 

(0 Christ, the gentle and the sweet. 
We kiss Thy hands, we kiss Thy feet ! 
Though all our sins our love condemn, 
Do thou remember Bethlehem !) 



* The above poem appeared as the leading Christmas 
editorial in the Atlanta Constitution, December 25,1891. 



A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 77 

Ring, ye bells, your welcome ! Hail, 
Through the morning's misty veil, 
Love's own priceless diadem 
On the brow of Bethlehem ! 

(0 Christ, Thy dreaming face at rest 
Upon the blessed Mother's breast; 
Let not Thy lips our kiss condemn — 
Dream of us now at Bethlehem !) 

Ring, ye bells ! the stars above 
Tell the story, sweet with love ; 
Ring the glory that it gives — 
How Love dies, and dying lives ! 

(0 Christ, the merciful and sweet, 
For those sharp nails that pierced Thy feet ; 
Thy crown of thorns, our crown to be, 
Remember us at Calvary !) 

Sing, ye herald angels, sing, 
While the bells the music ring, 
Sing the message once again : 
"Peace on earth, good-will to men!" 

(0 Christ, the crowned and glorified. 
Teach us Thy love — the love that died 
And lives — and for Thy sacrifice 
Remember us in Paradise !) 



78 SONGS OF A DAY. 



MAID O' THE MIST. 

Are you watching the ships sailing south- 
ward, 
mystical Maid o' the Mist? 
Do you wave your white hand 
When they're nearing the land — 

Are the tips of your white fingers kissed 
To the captains and sailors who shout o'er 

the foam 
For joy of the lights in the harbor at home? 



Are you watching the ships sailing south- 
ward, 
beautiful Maid o' the Mist? 

When the waves on the bars 

Make their moan to the stars. 

Do you keep with the night winds a tryst? 

The watch-fires are dead on the desolate 
strand 

And darkness hath hidden thy beckoning 
hand. 



MAID O' THE MIST. 79 

You are watching the ships saiHng south- 
ward, 
Maid o' the Mist! but I know 

That the pitiful waves 

Never tell of the graves 

Fathoms and fathoms below ; 

And the winds that blow inland o'er sea and 
o'er sound 

In mercy have stifled the cries of the 
drowned ! 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 

It was in the town o' Way cross, not many 
weeks ago. 

They had a big revival thar, as like enough 
you know ; 

An' though many was converted an' for par- 
don made to call, 

Yet the Sunday mornin' love feast was the 
happiest time of all ! 



'Twasa great experience meetin', an' it done 
me good to hear 

The brotherin an' the sisterin that talked re- 
ligion there ; 

You didn't have to ax them, nor coax them 
with a song, 

Them people had religion, an' they told it 
right along ! 
6 



84 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Thar was one — a hard old sinner — 'pears like 

I knowed his name, 
But I reckon I've forgot it — who to the altar 

came; 
An' he took the leader by the hand, with 

beamin' face an' bright. 
An' said: "I'm comin' home, dear fren's; 

I'm comin' home to-night!" 



Then a woman rose an' axed to be remem- 
bered in their prayers : 

"My husband's comin' home," said she, 
a-sheddin' thankful tears ; 

" I want you all to pray for him ; he's lived 
in sin's control, 

But I think the love o' Jesus is a-breakin' on 
his soul !" 



Then a young man rose an' told 'em he had 

wandered far av/ay. 
But felt like comin' home ag'in, an' axed 

'em all to pray ; 
An' sich a pra'r they made for him! I'll 

hear the like no more 
Till I hear the sweeter music on the bright 

celestial shore. 



THE LOVE FEAST AT WAYCROSS. 85 

Any shoutin'? Well, I reckon so! One 
brother give a shout : 

Said he had so much religion he was 'bliged 
to let it out ! 

An' the preacher joined the chorus, sayin' : 
" Brotherin, let 'er roll ! 

A man can't keep from shoutin' with relig- 
ion in his soul!" 



I tell you, 'twas a happy time; I wished 
'twould never end : 

Each sinner in the church that day had Je- 
sus for a friend ; 

But a good old deacon said to 'em, while 
tears stood in his eye : 

"Thar's a better time than this, dear fren's, 
a-comin' by an' by !" 



I hope some day those brotherin'U meet with 

one accord 
In the higher, holier love feast, whose leader 

is the Lord ; 
An' when this life is over, with its sorrow an' 

its sighs, 
May the little church at Waycross join the 

great church in the skies ! 



86 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



TO BOBERT J. BURDETTE. 

I've bin readin' of your writin's, Bob, for 

many a year gone by ; 
They're jes like household words ter me, an' 

mixed with wet an' dry; 
But of all things you've written, I think the 

sweetest still 
Is them lines erbout Jim Eiley and that 

night at Shelby ville ! 

I ain't so tender-hearted as a feller might 

suppose. 
Though I wouldn't press a thorn agenst the 

white breast of a rose; 
But readin' o' that piece o' your'n I felt the 

warm tears fill 
My eyes — as ef I'd bin thar, in that room at 

Shelbyville. 

We know Jim Riley down this way — I think 

you call him " Jim" — . 
An' we'd enjoy a settin' up in any place with 

him; 
He's got the run o' ail our hearts — we love 

him well ; but yet 
Thar's a powerful sight o' feelin' 'mong us 

all f er Bob Burdette ! 



TO ROBERT J. BURDETTE. 87 

You seem ter think, like Riley did, you're 

"no account at all," 
But thar's not a rose you planted but has 

climbed above the wall 
An' spilled its fragrance on us ! You're " the 

best one of 'em yet!" 
An' our hearts can hold Jim Eiley without 

crowdin' Bob Burdette. 

Though the "Sweet, old-fashioned Eoses" in 

the old-time ways may grow, 
Yet " The Gray Day" has its flowers, sleej)in' 

somewhere 'neath the snow ; 
An' "Mists are kissed from laughin' skies" 

that shine serenely yet — 
An' ef Jim's "the same old Eiley," you're 

the same old Bob Burdette. 

I'm runnin' on confusely; but I keep er 

thinkin' still 
Of what you told us 'bout that night you 

silent at Shelby ville; 
An' ef you ever steer this way, I hope you'll 

not forget 
That when it comes ter "settin' uj)," we're 

with you, Bob Burdette ! 



SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



SUMMER-TIME IN GEORGIA. 

summer-time in Georgy, I love to sing 

your praise, 
When the green is on the melon an' the sun 

is on the blaze ; 
When the birds are pantin', chantin', an' 

jes' rantin' round the rills 
With the juice of ripe blackberries jes' 

a-drippin' from their bills! 



Oh summer-time in Georgy, when through 

leaves of green an' brown 
The bright an' violet-scented dews jes' rain 

their richness down 
On the cool an' clingin' grasses where the 

fickle sunbeam slips. 
An' the famished lily puckers up its white 

resplendent lips ! 



summer-time in Georgy, with, the glory 

in the dells. 
Where the rare an' rainy incense from the 

fresh 'nin' shower swells. 



SUMMER-TIME IN GEORGIA. 89 

An' o'er the bars to twinklin' stars float 

twilight's sad farewells 
In the lowin' of the cattle an' the tinklin' o' 

the bells! 



O summer-time in Georgy, when 'neath the 

listenin' vine, 
Where the purple mornin' glory an' the 

honey-suckle twine, 
The whippoorwills were sin gin' their notes 

o' love and bliss. 
An' to my lips were clingin' the lips I used 

to kiss. 



Stay, like a dream eternal, while dearest 

dreams depart. 
An' rain your honey sweetness in showers 

round my heart. 
Pshaw ! I'm gettin' so pathetic my eyes can 

hardly see : 
summer-time in Georgy ! You're the best 

o' times to me. 



90 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 



THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 

That picnic at Selina — it covered lots o' 

ground ; 
Thar was wimmen, men an' hosses from fifty 

miles around, 
An' fiddles squeaked an' brogans creaked 

the merriest kind o' song, 
An' 'twas " Balance to your partners !" an' 

"Swing!" the whole day long. 



'Twas a powerful site o' pleasure jes' to see 

the fellers whirl 
Them lovely forms in calico, an' swing girl 

after girl. 
It was quite intoxicatin' ; you could hear 

the rafters ring 
Till the old men couldn't stand it, an' cut 

the " pigeon-wing !" 



The old-time "double-shuffle" made the dust 

fly from their heels, 
An' 'twas sich a jolly scuffle in the Old Vir- 

ginny reels; 



THE PICNIC AT SELINA. 91 

The young men jes' a-sweatin', an' the rosy 

gals a-blowin' — 
But they didn't mind the weather while they 

kept the fiddle goin' ! 



"It's jolly!" roared the rafters. "It's pain- 
ful!" groaned the floor. 

"It's dusty!" said the wimmen, but they 
only danced the more. 

An' the young men called it "stavin," an' 
I think that they was right, 

For the old-time Georgia "breakdown" made 
the stars dance with delight I 



All day the fiddle's music was ringin' wild 

an' sweet, 
The nigger-parson rolled it off an' kept 

time with his feet ; 
All day, with jes' a breathin' spell 'long 'bout 

the time o' noon, 
The dancers kept in motion an' the fiddle kept 

in tune. 



That picnic at Selina— it ain't to be fer- 

got, 
For a feller felt as happy 's if he owned a 

house an' lot; 



93 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

An' when I think about them gals m rib- 
boned calico, 

I feel like sin gin': "Praise the Lord from 
whom all blessin's flow!" 



There'll be good times at Selina in the happy 

days to be, 
But never any times like that for all the 

boys an' me. 
For the mem'ry of that picnic — it'll live a 

hundred years. 
An' I'll feel my old feet shufflin' when I 

climb the golden stairs ! 



WEAR YIN' FOR YOU. 

Jest a-wearyin' for you. 
Air the time a-feelin' blue; 
Wishin' for you, wonderin' when 
You'll be comin' home agen; 
Restless — don't know what to do, 
Jest a-wearyin' for you. 

Keep a-mopin' day by day; 
Dull — in everybody's way; 



wearyin' fob you. 93 

Folks they smile an' pass along 
Wonderin' what on earth is wrong; 
'Twouldn't help 'em if they knew — 
Jest a- wearyin' for you. 

Room's so lonesome, with your chair 
Empty by the fireplace there ; 
Jest can't stand the sight of it; 
Go out doors an' roam a bit, 
But the woods is lonesome, too, 
Jest a-wearyin' for you. 

Comes the wind with soft caress 
Like the rustlin' of your dress; 
Blossoms fallin' to the ground 
Softly, like your footsteps sound; 
Violets like your eyes so blue. 

Jest a-wearyin' for you. 

Mornin' comes. The birds awake 
(Use to sing so for your sake), 
But there's sadness in the notes 
That come thrillin' from their throats! 
Seem to feel your absence, too. 
Jest a-wearyin' for you. 

Evenin' comes. I miss you more 
When the dark glooms in the door ; 



94 SONGS OP THE SOIL. 

Seems jest like you orter be 
There to open it for me ! 
Latch goes tinkKn' — thrills me through- 
Sets me wearyin' for you. 

Jest a- wearyin' for you! 
All the time a-feelin' blue! 
Wishin' for you — wonderin' when 
You'll be comin' home agen. 
Restless — don't know what to do — 
Jest a- wearyin' for youl 



WHEN JIM WAS DEAD. 

When Jim was dead — 
"Hit sarved him right, "the nabors sed, 
An' 'bused him for the life he'd led, 
An' him a-lyin' thar at rest 
With not a rose upon his breast ! 
Ah ! menny cruel words they sed 
When Jim was dead. 

" Jes' killed hisself," "Too mean ter live." 
They didn't hav' one word ter give 
Of comfort as they hovered near 
An' gazed on Jim a-lyin' there ! 
"Thar ain't no use to talk," they sed, 
"He's better dead." 



THE OLE PINE BOX. 95 

But suddenly the room growed still, 
While God's white sunshine seemed ter fill 
The dark place with a gleam of life, 
An' o'er the dead she bent — Jim's wife! 
An' with her lii^s close, close ter his. 
As though he knew an' felt the kiss, 
She sobbed — a touchin' sight ter see — 
"Ah! Jim was always good ter me!" 



I tell 3^ou, when that cum ter light, 
It kinder set the dead man right ; 
An' round the weepin' woman they 
Throwed kindly arms of love that day. 
An' mingled with her own they shed 
The tenderest tears — when Jim was dead. 



THE OLE PINE BOX. 

We didn't care, in the long ago, 
Fer easy-chairs 'at were made fer show — 
With velvet cushions in red an' black 
An' springs 'at tilted a feller back 
Afore he knowed it — like them in town — 
Till his heels flew up an' his hed went down! 
But the seat we loved in the times of yore, 
Wuz the ole pine box by the grocery store ! 



96 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Thar it sot in the rain an' shine, 
Four foot long by the measurin' line; 
Under the chiny-berry tree — 
Jes' as cozy as she could be ! 
Fust hed quarters fer infermation — 
Best ole box in the whole creation ; 
Hacked an' whittled an' rote with ryme, 
An' so blamed sociable all the time. 

Thar we plotted an' thar we planned, 

Eead the news in the paper, an' 

Talked o' polly ticks fur an' v/ide, 

Got mixed up as we argyfied ! 

An' the ole town fiddler sawed away 

At "Ole Dan Tucker" an' "Nelly Gray! " 

Oh, they's boxes still — but they ain't no more 

Like the ole pine box at the grocery store. 

It ain't thar now, as it wuz that day — 

Burnt, I reckon, or throwed away ; 

An' some o' the folks 'at the ole box knowed 

Is fur along on the dusty road ; 

An' some's crost over the river wide 

An' found a home on the other side. 

Have they all f ergot? Don't they sigh no 

more 
Fer the ole pine box by the grocery store? 



GOOD-BY. 97 



GOOD-BY. 

There's a kind o' chilly feelin' in the blowin' 

o' the breeze, 
An' a sense o' sadness stealin' through the 

tresses o' the trees; 
An' it's not the sad September that's slowly 

drawin' nigh, 
But jist that I remember I have come to say 

"Good-by!" 

"Good -by," the wind is wailin'; "good- 

by," the trees complain, 
And they bend low down to whisper with 

their green leaves white with rain ; 
"Good-by," the roses murmur, an' the 

bendin' lilies sigh, 
As if they all felt sorry I have come to say 

"Good-by." 

I reckon all have said it, some time or other 

— soft 
An' easy Uke — with eyes cast down, that 

dared not look aloft, 
For the tears that trembled in them, for the 

lips that choked the sigh — 
When it kind o' took holt o' the heart, an' 

made it beat " Good-by !" 



98 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

I didn't think 'twas hard to say, but stand- 
in' here alone — ■ 

With the pleasant past beliin' me, an' the 
future dim, unknown, 

A-gloomin' yonder in the dark, I can't keep 
back the sigh — 

An' I'm weepin' like a woman, as I bid you 
all "Good-by!" 

The work I've done is with you; maybe 

some things went wrong 
Like a note that mars the music in the sweet 

flow of a song ! 
But, brethren, when you think of me, I only 

ask you would 
Say as the Master said of one: "He hath 

done what he could !" 

And when you sit together in the time as 
yet to be. 

By your love-encircled firesides in this pleas- 
ant land of Lee, 

Let the sweet past come before you, an' with 
somethin' like a sigh, 

Jist say: "We ain't f ergot him since the 
day he said 'Good -by!' " 



OLD TIMES IN GEORGIA, 99 



OLD TIMES IN GEORGIA. 

Old times in Georgy — them's the times for 
me! 

No times now like them times, an' never- 
more will be ; 

Long before the railroads, an' steamers 
blowin' free, 

How I like to dream o' them — dear old times 
to me ! 

Old times in Georgy — them's the times that 

make 
My old eyes shine like sunlight on some 

sweet mountain lake; 
An' sometimes, too, they kinder bring 

feelin's full o' pain. 
An' make my eyes run over, like rivers 

swelled by rain ! 

Old times in Georgy — I can't forget 'em 

quite. 
Suns that made the daytime, stars that made 

the night ; 
Wasn't they jest splendid — didn't they shine 

bright? 
All the world was love then, all the world 

was light! 
7 



100 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

Old times in Georgy — hear my old heart beat 
When they come a-ringin' with their music 

sweet ! 
Dreamin' of 'em always, here where Mem'ry 

dwells, 
They're like a sweet song's echo — a far-off 

chime o' hells ! 

Old times in Georgy, they was sweet to 

know — 
Old fren's that loved us, fren's that we loved 

so! 
Seem to lost my way, now — ain't much left 

to see — 
Them dear old times in Georgy is all life has 

for me ! 



THE LAZY MAN. 

I'm the laziest m.an, I reckon, that a mortal 
ever seed! 

Got money? Nary dollar! I wasn't built 
fer greed, 

Fer graspin' an' fer gripin' where the rev- 
enue is found; 

I'm what you call a lazy 'un — jes' built fer 
lyin' round! 



THE LAZY MAN. 101 

Contented ? Mighty right I am ; when spring 

winds whistle sweet 
In the meadows where the daisies make a 

carpet fer your feet ; 
Where the nestin' birds are chirpin' ; where 

the brook, in witchin' play, 
Goes laughin' on, a-pushin' all the lilies out 

his way, 
You'll find me almost any time a-lyin' at 

my ease 
With the lull song o' the locust an' the 

drowsy drone o' bees 
Above me an' aroun' me. I'm a poet in my 

way, 
An' I'd rather hear the birds sing than to 

shoot 'em any day ! 
" Jes' laziness," they tell me, an' I reckon 

they are right; 
But the world's so full o' beauty, an' you 

can't see much at night ! 
But different folks has different minds, nor 

drink from the same cup ; 
When I'm laughin' with the lilies, they're 

a-plowin' of 'em up. 

My field's a pasture fer the cows, an' though 

it never pays, 
It's a powerful source o' pleasure jes' ter see 

the creeturs graze! 



102 SOKGS OF THE SOIL. 

The tinkle, tinkle o' the bells is such a pleasin' 

sound — 
But I'm a lazy chap, you know, jes' built 

fer lyin' round ! 



DIDN'T THINK O' LOSIN' HIM. 

Always wuz abusin' him — 
Eough an' rougher usin' him, 
Love an' all refusin' him. 

Though his tears 'ud fall; 
Didn't think o' losin' him — 

Not at all! 

He, poor feller, he'd just sigh, 
With a waterin' o' the eye — 
Say: "It's all my fault," an' try 

T' stave 'em off awhile! 
" Some day I'll lay down an' die — 

Then they'll smile." 

An' he did. God's sometimes heap 
Kinder ter His poor lost sheep 
Than the ones 'at has their keep; 

So, one darkened day. 
He jest told him, "Go to sleep," 

In His own kind way. 



THE LIGHTNING AGE. 103 

Then the poor, sad, tearful eyes 
Smiled their thanks ter God's own skies 
With a kind o' sweet surprise — 

And the heart growed still. 
Said one of 'em: "Thar he lies; 

'Tis God's will!" 



Always wuz abusin' him — 
Rough an' rougher usin' him, 
Love an' all refusin' him. 

Though his tears 'ud fall ; 
Didn't think o' losin' him — 

Not at all! 



THE LIGHTNING AGE. 

What's the world a-comin' to, a feller'd like 

to know. 
When they're makin' ice to order an' man- 

ufacturin' snow? 
An' now, as if to vex us, another thing we 

hear: 
They're makin' rain in Texas without a word 

o' prayer! 



104 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

The cities — they're gone out o' sight; it 
'pears jes' like a dream, 

For when they have a cloudy night they run 
the stars by steam ! 

And here's the lightnin', with a song, pro- 
claimin' man is boss, 

An' all the street cars skimmin' 'long with- 
out Si mule or hoss ! 

An' here's that ringin' telephone, which 

never seems to tire. 
But takes a man's voice, free o' charge, across 

six mile o' wire; 
An' here's the blessed phonygraf, which 

makes your memory vain. 
An', like a woman, when you talk, keeps 

talkin' back again ! 

Lord ! how the world is movin' on, beneath 

the sun an' moon ! 
I can't help thinkin' I was born a hundred 

years too soon ; 
But when I go — praise be to God ! — it won't 

be in the night. 
For my grave will shine like glory in a 

bright electric light ! 



shoutin'." 105 



''SHOUTIN':' 

There's lots an' lots of people (if you'll jes' 

• believe my song) 
What says we shoutin' Methodists has got 

the business wrong. 
Well, they're welcome to their 'pinions, but 

of one thing I'm secure: 
If they ever git religion they will shout a 

hundred sure ! 

I was once into a love-feast, an' talk of 

shoutin' — why. 
It almost shook the windows in the everlast- 

in' sky! 
An' the Presbyterian people, they were happy 

— not a few — 
An' the Baptist brother come along an' jined 

the shoutin', too. 

I tell you, folks, religion is a curious kind o' 

thing; 
It gives a man a heart to pray — a powerful 

voice to sing ! 
An' if you've only got it — though there ain't 

no shoutin' heard — 
The people's bound to know it if you never 

say a word ! 



106 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

We're sailin' in the same old ship — no mat- 
ter where we roam ; 

The Baptists an' the Methodists — we're all 
a-goin' home: 

An' no matter how we travel, by our differ- 
ent creeds enticed, 

We'll all git home together if we're only 
one in Christ ! 

The paths we tread are sometimes rough, 

an' flowerless is the sod ; 
" This world is not a friend of grace to help 

us on to God !" 
But the lights o' Canaan shinin' o'er the 

river's crystal tide, 
Seem to woo us to the city that is on the 

other side ! 

Then let us sing together, for we're bound 

to git thar soon, 
" On the Other Side of Jordan" (will some 

brother raise the tune?) 
" Where the tree of life is bloomin', " sheddin' 

blossoms o'er the foam, 
"There is rest for all the weary;" an' we're 

goin', goin' home. 



JONES' COTTON PLANTER. 107 



JONES' COTTON PLANTER. 

He ain't of no account at all, jes' giv' up 

everything 
For what he calls "inventin'," bin a-foolin' 

'long sence sj^ring 
With a queer kin' o' contraption which has 

turned that head o' his ; 
Calls it " Jones' Cotton Planter, " but the Lord 

knows what it is ! 

He took it to the city, showed it to the board 

o' trade, 
An' they thought it was amazin' an' said: 

"Jones, your fortun's made!" 
I know they wuz a-foolin' him — got lots of 

imperdence ! 
But he cum home highfalutin', an' he hain't 

knowed nuthin' sence. 

He's built himself a blacksmith shop, an' 

thar he works away. 
With the pesky bellows roarin' like a cyclone 

night an' day; 
Ain't reg'lar at his meals no more, man of 

a fam'ly, too; 
I wish that cotton planter was in — Georgy, 

so I do ! 



108 SONGS OF THE SOIL. 

It strikes me they've got things enough 

without his makin' more, 
Unless he fixed up somethin' for the grass 

that's at his cloor; 
But the cotton planter's got him, an' the 

children's worked to death, 
For he keeps em' at the bellows till they're 

almost out o' breath, 

Sich a blowin', sich a hammerin', sich a 

sawin' — never stops; 
Can't git him interested in the weather or 

the crops. 
"I'ma gittin' thar!" he'll tell you; "she'll 

be ready by the fall ; 
And Jones' cotton planter '11 take the shine 

from off 'em all!" 

He's done fur. No use talkin' ; he's a 

ruined man as sure 
As Betsy, thar, is sittin' with her knittin' at 

the door ; 
Alas ! for all the children — they'll be down to 

skin and bones. 
An' ^ ones' cotton planter '11 be the epitaph 

o' Jones! 



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